“What did you do to her?” Jareth screamed at Kaysar.
“Three,” Micah called.
A volley of arrows whizzed through the sky, whistling on approach. Knowing what to do as if she’d trained her entire life, Cookie lifted her arms. Vines shot from her fingers, branching into hundreds of other vines in seconds, forming a large wall.
The arrows embedded in the stalks, and she felt every strike. But she liked it.
“There is no more perfect creature.” Kaysar grazed the shell of her ear with a metal claw.
She preened for him, because she couldn’t not. When she released the vines, the stalks withered to ash, but a sweet scent remained.
The arrows plummeted into the chasm, useless, and the soldiers took a collective step back, one word rising from their ranks. “Poisonvine.”
“My turn to attack.” She smiled her sweetest smile at Micah—and produced hundreds more vines.
* * *
SOME MOMENTS FOREVER altered your existence. This was one such time for Kaysar. He knew it, sensed it. And he wasn’t sorry.
For the whole of his life, he’d considered himself incapable of passion. He’d lauded the inability. But it hadn’t taken Chantel long to coax his deepest desires from hiding. Now, Kaysar stood transfixed, desperate to worship at the feet of the hauntingly beautiful princess who had turned his world upside down.
In her sexy pink dress and jewels, wielding her gift and poison, Chantel was every dream he’d never known he possessed. Wise. Discerning. Fierce. His doll to dress up and play with. His sweetest weapon. The war prize he deserved for surviving a year of agony and a hundred lifetimes of misery. His mate.
She was. He knew that, too, all questions assuaged. The knowledge lit him up, pride infusing his spine. Fate had selected this warrior woman for him and him alone. Eye had predicted it. Whatever Chantel’s last name was, she belonged to Kaysar. He had decided.
He dared anyone to contradict him.
More and more vines flourished from the princess’s delicate, bejeweled hands. Those thorny stalks matured fast and bred others, splitting here, there, everywhere. Each end sharpened as it uncoiled and slithered.
Rule my lands, Micah? Think again. So Kaysar had been absent from the Dusklands longer than he’d believed. So what?
The false king’s soldiers panicked as the vines descended, a row of archers unleashing another volley. Once again, Chantel stopped the assault midair. Vines grew over the chasm... Chaos reigned, centaurs rearing, dumping their riders. Men retreated, but they were slow, weighed down by their armor.
Within seconds, Chantel constructed a wide, sturdy bridge, connecting the cliff to the flatlands. Still her vines grew, coiling around the first line of soldiers—and squeezing. Armor crunched, caving in, and blood gushed from every metal joint.
She laughed, the sound of it lovelier than Prince Lark’s screams for mercy. “Do you see, Kaysar? I made fae in a can. Chicken of the siege.”
Hair swaying in the breeze. Irises like mercury and gleaming. Skin aglow. She was more radiant than the sun, her every motion a study of grace and elegance. Rosy color painted her cheeks as red and pink flowers bloomed from her vines.
A vessel of vengeance and woe.
He had no defenses against her. Desire burned him. Scorched him—branded him. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.
I will give her jewels. All the jewels. He would give her everything. Just as he’d promised. But he would expect everything from her, too. Her loyalty. Her devotion. Her presence. She would stay with him always.
Supply Jareth with one of her children? One of mine? No. Kaysar devised a new plan. He and Chantel would have no children. Since the citizens of Astaria considered her a Frostline for the rest of eternity, the name would die when he tired of tormenting Hador and Jareth.
An acceptable outcome.
Chantel would support his agenda, of course. Look at her. His Briar Rose, the embodiment of destruction and the most breathtaking sight in all the lands.
“Do you happen to know if Micah has been slain yet, sweetling?” he asked, curious. Soon, the battle would end, a vast majority of the army annihilated as easily as breathing.
“I’m not sure.” Her pout only kindled his desires. “I lost sight of him fifty or so deaths ago.”
The unseated men shouted as they ran. Other warriors stayed to fight, stabbing and hacking at the poisonous stalks. Venom leaked from the punctures, rendering many of the fighters immobile.
Arrows flew at random, embedding in different parts of the vines. Kaysar scowled when Chantel winced. She felt each strike?
Pain fanned her eyes with the next volley, a bead of sweat trickling from her temple. Her shoulders hunched ever so slightly.
She did. This was unacceptable.
You know what you must do.
Oh, he did. But he hesitated, unsure. For centuries, he’d used his song as a weapon to cause madness and death. He hadn’t attempted to heal anyone but himself since Viori’s loss.
He sank his claws into his palms. Emotions mattered, affecting tone. If he caused Chantel a moment of agony or furthered her injuries...
He took an honest look inside his heart. What emotions currently seethed there? Fury, yes. Always. Hatred? Malice? Bitterness? All were present and accounted for. But beneath them, he thought he sensed...affection? A well of it. More than he was comfortable carrying for someone—anyone.
Could he utilize it? Should he?
More arrows plugged her vines, and she mewled. Some of her strength dwindled. Kaysar stopped musing, his answer suddenly clear. Yes, he should.
He moved behind her and clasped her waist. Will never get enough of these curves. Concentrating on the affection wasn’t as difficult as expected. As his throat heated, he placed his mouth at her ear.
The heat built...and he released the first note of his song.
Chantel’s eyes hooded as he crooned to her. Even as she wielded her vines, she leaned against him, swaying from side to side. She began to sing along. “Death has come for you. And you. And you. Hmm-hmm. You can run, but you can’t hide. My vines pursue.”
She gives words to my melody? Satisfaction slaked some previously unknown desire. Was there nothing this treasure of a female couldn’t do?
The louder he sang, the faster her vines bred. More and more thorns emerged, protruding from the stalks, cutting through armor as easily as a knife through butter.
Having a partner might be...nice.
“Stop.” Features scrunched with agony, Jareth crumpled into a fetal ball. He pressed one ear to the ground and covered the other ear with his remaining hand. Blood ran between his fingers. “You have to stop.”